Doubt was a mean little fucker that pricked your heart with a thousand thorns.
* * *
Surprisingly, the rehearsal went off without a hitch, and I prayed the subsequent dinner would go just as smoothly.
But I hadn’t heard from my fake fiancé and refused to get my panties in a bunch about him not replying to myHi,did you make it?text.
Perhaps he got stuck in traffic, or maybe the plane landed late.
With thirty minutes to spare before the rehearsal dinner, I plodded to my hotel room, faith assuring me Reed would be there.
When I opened the hotel room door, I spotted Reed’s shoes on the floor next to his duffle bag, his phone on the desk plugged into a charger, and from the bathroom, I could hear water splattering around in the shower.
Relief blasted from my lungs.He made it.
“Is that you, Gigi?” Reed called from the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
Why did my heart still topple over, swoon at the mere sound of his voice?
Easing onto the couch, I folded my hands in my lap and exhaled.
All I had to do was sit and breathe.
Slow fucking breaths, Giana. In. Out.
Several minutes later, my ears perked up when the water shut off.
And it only took seconds for Reed to emerge, water beading his skin.
As my gaze traveled down the toned muscular planes of his chest, past the deep V-shaped cut in his abs, and onto the towel threaded loosely around his waist, I sat on the couch panting like a hyena.
“Hey”—a smile blossomed on his face—“just give me a few minutes to change into something more presentable.”
I bobbed my head wildly, swallowing the knot of lust clogging my throat. “Sure. Of course.”
When he disappeared back into the bathroom, I nonchalantly plucked my cell phone out of my clutch and thumbed a message to Stacy.
Me: You’re right.
Less than a second later, her response whooshed in.
Stacy: About??
A ghost of a smirk touched my lips.
Me: We are so gonna fuck.
* * *
“Let’s review our game plan, ensure we’re on the same page.” Reed relaxed beside me on the couch, the delicious combination of freshly showered man and cologne floating under my nose.
He wore his ensemble quite well—a simple button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to showcase arm porn accessorized with a tattoo, not to mention butt-gripping slacks—but a flashback of him in just a towel made me wish I had a fan. “Yeah, good idea.”
We revisited critical points about our sham: the two of us began dating again six months ago; realized we’d made a huge mistake breaking up; he got down on one knee last weekend while spending a romantic weekend in the Hamptons; yada, yada, yada.
The plan had success written all over it—if duly executed. No hiccups or gaps.
“Speaking of getting down on one knee.” Reed pulled a black velvet box from his pants pocket, then crouched down on one knee. “I figured a ring would only enhance our story, lend it some merit.”
